14 The Meadow a child’s tale Dhwanee Goyal the end starts with me and the lake of our city behind us. we met here once in the undergrowth of an afternoon, slinking in like battle cries with our little child feet, lying shrouded inside the earth and thinking, what must it be like on the outside. nails giving way to crusty backstreets and blisters, the city refashioning itself, scrawling lamp-posts on paper in the heat of the night, wind unfolding its tresses above the sea. us, made of black thread, vapor skin, foreign tongues. us biting into glass, our friends raining upon the ground. voices softer than the flesh that has betrayed us. they make art of this now, those temporary nights and the condensed faces of the nameless like, maybe this will last a little longer. we’ll make histories of this sometime.
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